


Sehnsucht.

by orange_crushed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m fine," Castiel says. He looks up at the specials board on the wall, but the words blur a little. "I’m tired," he admits. He looks up at Dean. For a second, Dean’s smile slides away and Castiel is left looking at something which is infinitely sadder, raw and bitter somehow. Then Dean looks down and pretends he is studying the beverages list. His hands are wrinkling the corner of his menu.</p><p>"I’m sorry," Dean says.</p><p>Castiel doesn’t ask, <i>for what</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sehnsucht.

Dean is already sitting outside on the Pennysaver box when Castiel’s shift is over and he comes out the back door. Dean appears to be actually reading one of the little newspapers. It’s flipped open to the classifieds: bikes for sale, apartments, questionably purebred dogs. Castiel stands there for a second and watches Dean’s face furrow in concentration, watches his heels knock arrhythmic beats against the newspaper box. Dean exhales in little clouds of steam, slowly, through pale, dry lips. Finally, Dean looks up.

"Hey," he says. He looks pleased. "All done?"

"Done," Castiel repeats. His feet ache and there’s a seam in his polyester shirt, under his heavy coat, that’s rubbing him raw at the back of his neck. It’s not the larger things that wear him down: getting punched in the face by a ghoul, for example. No. It’s the smaller hurts. The gnaw of hunger or the hot spike of pain that comes from re-opening a paper cut. The twinge in his knee when he’s been sitting in the same position for too long. He doesn’t know how humans deal with it, how they’ve dealt with it for thousands of years. But maybe, Castiel thinks, that’s why they’ve started so many wars; why they watch television shows about murder and violence and theft, why they are casually cruel to cashiers and waitresses and their own crying children. Because their backs ache and their teeth throb against ice, because there is a knot in their calves that won’t work itself out. Because their bodies are always failing. Because they are all going to die. Perhaps he should stop thinking about this right now.

"You hungry?" Dean asks. "I’m hungry." He unlocks the car and slides in and Castiel slides in after him. Dean turns the key and the engine rumbles to life and air starts pumping through the vents: cold at first, then marginally warmer. In a minute it’s hot enough for Castiel to hold his hands up and rub them together in front of the jet of air, like the hand dryer in the men’s room. It feels wonderful but it also awakens the cracks in his chapped skin, the small tearing seams he gets from washing his hands too many times and then going outside with no gloves on. Castiel doesn’t like the hand lotion they keep behind the counter at the Gas-N-Sip. It smells like artificial flowers, a plastic summer afternoon rendered in a chemical factory. Also, it’s goopy. "Cas," Dean says. He’s watching Castiel massage his bloodless hands in front of the heaters. "Are you cold? You feeling okay?"

"The space heater under the desk broke this morning." He shrugs. "Nora said she’ll replace it tomorrow."

"You got to stay warm," Dean says, intensely, like this is something Castiel doesn’t know, a lesson Dean is intent on teaching. Dean peels his own gloves off. "C’mere," he says, and holds his hands out towards Castiel’s. Castiel lets him take his hands between his palms; Dean rubs them and then holds them, pressed together tightly. His skin’s so much warmer. Castiel can feel the heat seeping slowly into him. He understands at a theoretical level that this is conduction, the transfer of energy from one piece of matter to another. On a less theoretical level, it feels like kindness. Like he is a candle being lit from a greater flame. Dean leans down and blows hot air onto Castiel’s hands from his own lungs; runs his thumbs over and between Castiel’s palms. Castiel feels slightly less sluggish. He stares down at the place where their hands meet. He doesn’t want this to stop. "Better?" Dean asks.

"Yes," says Castiel. "Thank you." Dean mutters something about him being welcome, about it being no big deal, and then lets go of Castiel’s hands. He puts his own on the steering wheel, where they slide restlessly back and forth. "I am hungry," Castiel says at last. He frowns. "Very hungry. I considered eating yesterday’s taquitos." Dean laughs.

"There’s a Mexican place on Cherry Street," Dean says. "I googled it. That okay?"

"That’s fine."

Dean throws the car into gear and they go out of the parking lot, back towards town. 

 

 

In the booth at Taco Riendo Dean scans the menu for all of five seconds and says,

"Hey, dinner combo for two. Five traditional tastes," he reads aloud. He tilts his menu so that Castiel can see it, and points at a glossy picture of an enormous amount of food. "Do you mind sharing?"

"No," says Castiel. Frankly, he’s relieved not to have to choose. He enjoys making selections, enjoys discovering what he does and doesn’t like in restaurants, at the grocery store, but today he’s at his limit. He is tired of the thought of aisle after aisle of scented shampoos or flavors of juice, he is tired of toppings for hamburgers or decisions about what television show to watch in the long blank hours after work. His shirt still itches. Dean is waiting for him to say something else. "That sounds good." Dean looks at him for a long moment.

"Are you sure you’re okay?" he says, low, so the people in the next booth can’t hear him. "If you’re-"

"I’m fine," Castiel says. He looks up at the specials board on the wall, but the words blur a little. "I’m tired," he admits. He looks down at Dean. For a second, Dean’s smile slides away and Castiel is left looking at something which is infinitely sadder, raw and bitter somehow. Then Dean looks down and pretends he is studying the beverages list. His hands are wrinkling the corner of his menu.

"I’m sorry," Dean says.

Castiel doesn’t ask, _for what_.

 

 

Dinner is excellent; Castiel eats his fill and then eats a little past that, until he feels bloated and sated instead of just tired. It feels a little better. Dean is still working on the refried beans and picking up individual pieces of corn with the tines of his fork.

"Ugh," Dean says. He takes another bite. "Mm." Dean closes his eyes and puts his hand up against his forehead. Castiel finally understands now why humans do that, how thin the line is between delight and disgust, how pleasurable it can be to ride along it. "Stuffed," Dean says. "You want to take the leftovers?" Castiel does.

Dean drives him to the apartment building where Castiel lives; a flat, gray stone complex with a dozen little units. Dean follows him upstairs and talks about Sam and Kevin, something called a game of thrones, while Castiel puts the styrofoam container in his fridge and turns the heat back up for the night. They end up sitting on opposite sides of the sofa, Castiel cross-legged, Dean slouched back with one leg hanging off the side. “I just wish Ned Stark had kept his stupid mouth shut,” Dean says, sadly. Castiel has lost track of who exactly that is. “Sean Bean, though,” Dean adds, “I should have known.” He shakes his head. “It’s like he’s contractually obligated to die in everything he does.” He looks up at Castiel. “I don’t know if you’d like the show,” Dean says, thoughtfully. “But you could read the books.”

"I did get a library card," Castiel says. He’s not sure he’s going to read these particular books about headless Sean Bean, but he doesn’t want to say so and hurt Dean’s feelings needlessly. Dean grins.

"Look at you," he says. "Model citizen."

"I don’t think so," Castiel says. "I’m still being paid on the table."

"Under the table," Dean says.

"Oh." Castiel thinks about it. "That makes considerably more sense." Dean smiles and then laughs gently to himself, leaning back a little, legs going wider and his teeth showing, and Castiel is laughing too until he is seized for one brief, hysterical second with a single thought: _I’m going to die I’m going to die_. And so he does the only thing he can think of. He lurches up onto his knees and goes forward and kisses Dean on the mouth, dry and hard, with one hand against Dean’s chest for balance. Dean freezes and Castiel pulls back and they stare at each other, only a few inches apart. They used to do this in motel rooms, sometimes; sometimes they did more. Frantically, half-dressed, always too quick and a little too hard. It always seemed like a surprise to both of them. Maybe a dozen times, all told, over a couple of years. And once, angrily, in Bobby’s house, with Dean’s jeans around his ankles and his voice hoarse from yelling. That was the worst; Castiel remembers every agonizing second of how it ended, what was said before he left in silence. Castiel hasn’t touched him in such a long time. Castiel wonders if there’ve been others for Dean; sometimes there were, in between. But not since the last time, he doesn’t think. He’s not sure. But he doesn’t think so. It’s not especially important. It’s strange that Castiel is the one who has touched someone else like this, now; a stranger. Dean’s is not the only body he knows anymore, but it is still the one he knows best.

"Cas," says Dean, and puts a hand up to his face. Castiel leans down again and this time it’s better, it works better, he’s got the angle okay and Dean’s mouth opens against his and it’s wet and hot and good, so good, so good and right and wonderful. They kiss and Castiel grinds down into his lap and Dean’s hands go up and down his sides, palms rubbing the meat of his hips, up to coast along his shoulderblades, down to the top of his ass. Dean breaks the kiss and plants lighter ones along his top lip, his cheek, the underside of his jaw and down his throat. He’s always been this gentle, when they’ve had time for gentleness. "How," Dean says, and puts his face into Castiel’s neck. He holds onto Castiel for a second, hands fisted in Castiel’s hideous, hated work uniform shirt. He’s breathing hard. "How can you still," Dean says, and Castiel leans back, peels Dean away from his body so that he can look at his eyes. They’re red-rimmed, starting to brim over. Castiel cups Dean’s face in both hands, waits for him to speak. "How can you still want me?" Dean says, and squeezes his eyes shut.

"You mean," Castiel says, "because-"

"I kicked you out," Dean says, miserably. Castiel considers it. And then he leans forward and presses his face into Dean’s hair, next to his ear. He doesn’t kiss him. He just rubs his face into Dean’s scalp and inhales.

"I’ve been angry with you," Castiel says, softly. 

“ _Cas_ -“

"I still want you," Castiel says. "I always want you. Nothing ever makes me stop." Dean makes a noise like he’s dying and pulls Castiel on top of him, closer; he fists his hands in Castiel’s hair and kisses him breathless, rolls him off the couch to kiss him on the floor and straddle him and suck his way down Castiel’s neck while he tries to wrestle Castiel’s work slacks open. Dean succeeds and then swallows him down and they fuck on the floor, after, and knock over Castiel’s paperback books and give each other rugburn on his cheap carpeting. Dean stays the night. In the morning Castiel wakes up before Dean does, and has time to contemplate him, flushed and snoring a little in Castiel’s bed, naked and warm-skinned, freckled on the tops of his shoulders. Castiel’s known universe, again. He will have to learn him anew in this body. He will have to start over. Dean wakes up and sees him looking and goes slightly pink. Even the tops of those shoulders. Castiel kisses that spot, and then leans up on one elbow. "Are you going to keep coming here?" Castiel says. He needs this information. "Or was this time some kind of goodbye?"

“ _Jesus_ , no,” Dean blurts out. “I mean, yes. Yes. I want to come back. Do you want me to come back?”

"I told you what I want," Castiel says, firmly. There is no time for prevarication, for vagueness, not anymore. There is a finite time remaining to them both and Castiel is not going to waste it pretending, or watering the dead garden of his pride. If he is going to hurt and ache, if he is going to disintegrate eventually, he is going to need this, too. He doesn’t know why people can’t ask for it, for this, the way they can ask for food and shelter, the other essentials. Castiel has not been socialized that way. "I want you however I can have you." Dean’s eyes go wide and then glossy, damp again. He lies helplessly back against the pillow and lets Castiel stroke his hair, his arms.

"I’m sorry," Dean says. Castiel’s heard it from him so many times now, he’s not sure why it still hurts, why it feels good and bad at the same time. It remains mysterious. "I want you to come home. But-"

"But I can’t," Castiel finishes for him. "Right?"

“Cas,” Dean says, and presses forward to smush his face into Castiel’s naked chest, sounding humiliated. He stays there, curled against him. Castiel pets the small hairs starting to grow erratically and unevenly at the back of his scalp. Dean needs a haircut. He also needs a shave, a shower. Castiel is starting to understand that these human grooming behaviors can indicate mood. So: Dean’s been unhappy. Castiel feels like hoarding that information. Absurdly, he thinks about thanking Dean for it. _Thank you_ , he thinks. He rubs behind Dean’s ear with his thumb. Thank you for your visible unhappiness. I will press it warmly inside my own. It eases something inside Castiel, that he didn’t know he’d tightened. “Soon,” Dean says, into Castiel’s ribs. “Okay? Soon, I promise. We’ll figure it out. We have to.”

"How long will you stay?" Castiel asks. Dean rolls back and looks up at him. His eyes are sad, but not distant. He isn’t going yet, he’s here, Castiel has him for now. Dean twines their fingers together.

"A while?" Dean asks.

"Good," says Castiel.

 

.


End file.
